


Drink You Under the Table

by chewysugar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fade to Black, Hand Jobs, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29821461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Geralt's meeting with a potential client would be easier if Jaskier weren't distracting him. Not that he's complaining.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 144





	Drink You Under the Table

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think I ought to stop trying to become a published author and just be content with the knowledge that A) I'm good at, and enjoy, writing fanfic and B) people seem to like the cut of my jib.

Everything about it is routine—from the shady corner of the inn to the rowdy noise, to the weak ale. Even the contact—a desperate magistrate from a farming village a stone’s throw away—is bespoke. The woman’s worries are workaday. There’s a beast killing livestock, missing children, and a handful of mutilated youths.

Geralt tries to give this all due attention and courtesy. There’s coin in it, and he’s certain the culprit is more wild animal than monster. But there’s a distraction in the form of warm lips around his cock.

It’s pure providence that this inn has long table cloths obscuring the underside of its dining surfaces. The second Jaskier clapped his impish blue eyes on the obscurity, something had seized hold of him, and Geralt had been waiting on tenterhooks for hours wondering what in all the hells his dastardly lover would do.

He should have been suspicious when Jaskier elected to join him for the meeting with the village leader. He had, in fact, been quite suspicious. Jaskier was known to run his delectable little mouth and they were too badly in need of gold to ruin the conference. When Jaskier had ducked beneath the tablecloth upon the woman entering the inn, Geralt had barely had time to be confused before it dawned on him exactly why the table had caught the bard’s attention.

Now here he was, for all intents and purposes perfectly sober and hearing tell of all manner of woes. Meanwhile Jaskier’s tongue was doing things punishable by death between Geralt’s legs.

“Hrm.” The grunt works it’s way from Geralt’s throat involuntarily. The village leader pauses in her recounting of two lookouts found slain near a watchtower.

“I’m sorry?”

Geralt shakes his head curtly. “Nothing. Go on.” Jaskier, the little devil, hums happily around Geralt’s length. Pleasant, devastating tremors run down his shaft and churn the heat in his groin. Muscles in his neck shift, and he’s sure his would-be contract can notice the subtle discomfiture.

No matter.

As long as she doesn’t happen to move her leg the wrong way, and Jaskier can carry on without undue interruption.

Jaskier’s often been told to put his mouth to good use. If only his dissenters were aware of this particular gift of his. Not only can he sing a sweet song when the mood strikes him, and fill empty silence with pretty words, but he sucks cock better than the most skilled whore.

The tip of Jaskier’s tongue glides along the underside of Geralt’s thick shaft. Geralt’s fingers curl on the table from the sensation. Iron willpower is all the keeps him from completely coming undone in front of all these people. Jaskier is doing his utmost to test Geralt’s limits, flicking his tongue and nipping ever so softly on delicate skin.

“...and always during the full moon,” the leader sighs at length. “So you see, Witcher, we could all be dead by the end of the week.”

Jaskier takes Geralt in his hand, slowly stroking back and forth. The loss of warmth and wet allows Geralt the chance to focus, but only ever so. Magnificent as his mouth may be, Jaskier’s fingers are just as sublime. Years of plucking at lutes and mandolins have left him with callouses to shame a blacksmith.

And Geralt feels every last hard ridge of them as the bard strokes him at his leisure.

With a modicum of restraint returned, Geralt can wrap his lips around speech.

“Right. It sounds like an upiör.”

The woman goes green around the gills.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that.” Geralt waves a hand airily. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to—“ His voice staggers. Jaskier’s reached into Geralt’s trousers and released the rest of him. A split-second later and the damned little torturer’s lips have completely sucked in one of Geralt’s balls. The Witcher states forward, eyes glazing over at the feeling.

Jaskier lavishes attention on one round plum before he takes the other one into his mouth. And still he continues to stroke Geralt, no longer in slow, easy glides but swift, earnest strokes that have the Witcher seeing stars. Dimly he’s aware that he’s breathing a little too hard for conspicuousness. But he’s beyond the sphere of senses—a pure servant to the pleasure given him by the bard beneath the tablecloth.

“Witcher? Are you ill?”

Geralt shakes his head, his neck bowed, his hair forming half a curtain over his face. Jaskier slides from Geralt’s sack with a soft popping sensation before he engulfs the Witcher’s cockhead. Geralt’s gasp is ragged. He hasn’t been thinking straight for the last gods only know how long. His length glides down Jaskier’s mouth, oozing droplets of pearly precum over the bard’s golden tongue.

“I’m fine,” Geralt grunts.

He sees the woman tilt her head. But he’s so consumed that he can’t divert himself from the way Jaskier is devouring him. He’s afraid that if he does he’ll fall from the bonds of such exquisite delight.

“So you’ll do it then? You’ll come?”

Geralt’s golden eyes go wide. Noise in the tavern explodes—someone nearby must have told a raucous joke. The swell hits Geralt square in the solar plexus. His balls tighten. Heat explodes through him.

“Y-e-ee-s.” He groans, his throat muscles contracting as Jaskier swallows the bursts of semen jettisoning down his gullet. “I’m coming.”

He can’t believe he’s said it, but it’s too tantalizing to pass up the opportunity. Nobody knows what’s happening, and if they do then they can choke on the notion of a Witcher being brought off in public by his traveling minstrel.

Once the white heat subsides to smolders—when he’s left more boneless than the aftermath of the fiercest battle—he meets the village leader’s bemused gaze. A sinking sense of guilt settles over him like so many flakes of snow. But he can abide the cold, and he cracks a rake’s grin at the woman.

“I’ll do as you ask.”

The village leader still seems to fear he’s contracted a virulent sickness. But she doesn’t press the issue. Beneath the table, Jaskier tucks Geralt’s softening member safely back into the tight confines of his pants.

“Very well, Witcher.” She nods. “I look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience.” She rises with the air of one pleased to be rid of present company.

The inn continues to rumble with the conversation of scores. Geralt sips on his wine, waiting for the moment when Jaskier will emerge from his hiding place.

It takes the bard several lingering moments, likely waiting for the cost to be clear. When he pops up next to Geralt, he’s got the smile of a well-fed wolf.

“Scintillating orator,” Jaskier says happily. “That woman, I mean.”

“We were almost caught.”

Jaskier’s grin widens all the more. “I didn’t have a knife to your balls. If you didn’t want to, you shouldn’t have agreed.” Some of his smugness falters, and he looks Geralt intently in the eyes. “You _did_ want, didn’t you?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. Then he smirks, and stands, so suddenly that the entire table shakes. Jaskier squeaks in alarm, and a moment later let’s out a surprised yelp as Geralt flings him over his shoulder.

Now they really have drawn attention to themselves. People stare, mouths agape at the display of blatant physicality. It’s not a fight so they can’t join in, and it isn’t anything particularly carnal, but still it’s not a sight this humble lot is used to.

“Nothing to see here, folks!” Jaskier waves as Geralt carries him towards the stairs. “Just being kidnapped by a Witcher with an ass heard tell of in song.”

Geralt grunts, and gives Jaskier a firm swat on his own backside—in his mind, a precursor of things to come. The bard only laughs all the more, as if the taste of Geralt‘s seed made him drunk. A moment later Geralt kicks the door of their room open. In three great strides he crosses the floor and all but tosses Jaskier onto the mattress.

And still the little shit keeps laughing—as if he didn’t just bring Geralt to a mind-shattering climax downstairs. As if he didn’t nearly ruin an opportunity for coin, or risk public discovery and humiliation.

He’s going to have to be put in his place.

Geralt feels Jaskier’s eyes on him as he locks the door.

“Oh dear,” Jaskier sighs, watching as Geralt peels his shirt over his head. “I think the big, scary Witcher is about to punish me.”

Geralt doesn’t shuck his pants off. Jaskier‘s going to have to earn that through some penance first. Prowling to the bed, Geralt seizes Jaskier by the ankles and flips him over.

“Yes,” Geralt growls in response to Jaskier’s question. In one swift movement he has the bard‘s breeches down, his tempting ass bared for Geralt’s pleasure—and his whims. “Yes, he most certainly is going to punish you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do let me know what you think.


End file.
